


Written in the Scars

by brokenEisenglas



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Canon Related, Gen, Other, Post-Reichenbach, Pre-Canon, Pre-Reichenbach, Scars, Struggle, Undercover Work, conglomeration, damage, not romantically centered, possible romantic relationships, possible timeline discrepancies, possible triggers throughout, pre-John, pre-Lestrade, stories
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-17
Updated: 2016-03-31
Packaged: 2018-03-13 11:39:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3380156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokenEisenglas/pseuds/brokenEisenglas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We all have our scars. Our scars are our stories. Some are visible, many are culminated in our actions. Who we are is the sum of our pasts and how we approach our futures.</p><p>This is a collection of stories, focusing on the development of character and being.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lestrade

**Author's Note:**

> Not in any particular order, but also not necessary to have read in order.
> 
> This is a project I have been working on: a collection of character based on the scars and stories that have been given for artistic purposes. I've taken this project title and used it for this collection of stories in hope to create a situation to analyze character development/psychology.
> 
> Updates will be sporadic, but hopefully closer to once ever two weeks.

He was, in no form or fashion, young. In fact, if one were to ask Gregory Lestrade what he considered himself, he would more than likely reply:

                                “damaged goods”.

Of course, as a detective inspector and middle-aged man one would expect someone like Lestrade to be worn or weary, but most wouldn’t go so far as to say ‘damaged goods’. However, someone like his ex-wife might push and simply say “damaged”, but she could hardly give an unbiased opinion. No, only someone like…

“Sherlock?” Greg startles as he sees the young man in NSY’s restroom mirror. Conscious of propriety, Lestrade begins to button-down his change of shirt when a cold hand grasps him from behind. “Sherlock?... If this is some kind of joke…”

The younger man shakes his head in the negative once and removes Lestrade’s hands from the shirt. Black curls fall across high cheekbones as cerulean eyes rest where one set of hands touches the other.

 _“Everybody, get down!” The sound of the gunshot is the last he hears before_ -

Slowly, fingers undo the few buttons to have been looped. “It is interesting,” the baritone rumbles, “that you button from top to bottom.”

    _She giggles from behind him. Perfectly freckled cheeks dimple as she grins for him.She is so beautiful, and he often wonders how he came to be with a woman as magnificently gorgeous as she. With his greying hair and increasing waistline, how did such an angel find him?_

_Looking into the mirror, he gives her his best smile. “What?” he chuckles in response. Nerves cause him to avert his eyes, glancing about the loo, and then his gaze returns to hers._

_With a slight shaking of her head, she laughs, “You and your habits.”_

Slightly disconcerted, Lestrade just nods twice while observing the younger man. Sherlock’s eyes are clear and inquisitive, having no signs of the drug addled youth he often was. Greg frequently considered the boy’s potential as a detective if not for the addictions. If only the kid would let go of the needle… He realizes that Sherlock has had enough time to unbutton his shirt, but two hands, not his own, hold the shirt closed.

“Sherlock, what are you doing?”

The younger man sighs before lowering his gaze to the floor. Clearing his throat, he whispers, “May I see?”

The inspector’s eyes bulge slightly at the strange request… Sherlock never asks for anything... well, at least not politely.

    Concerned yet intrigued, Lestrade nods once more, “Go ahead.”

    _“You are covered in them, Greg.”_

_It was an argument they had often: his safety. “Claire… it’s part of the job.”_

_Pursing her lips, his wife watches from that same mirror. Four years of marriage did little to hide the nervous twitch of the muscle in his shoulder. The argument always made him uneasy._

_Sighing, she allowed him to see her emerald gaze once more before leaving to ‘get some air’._

Hesitantly, the young consultant opens the shirt and drops it to dangle from the cuffs on Lestrade’s wrists. A skyline gaze looks to the others' eyes for confirmation before observing the inspector through the mirror’s reflection and then examines his back as well. Greg can feel the inquisitive roaming. His skin feels like fingers are trailing along each mark, mapping their dimensions… their causes...

After what feels like a lifetime, Sherlock brings the article back up over Lestrade’s shoulders, and with a mumbled “thank you”, he leaves.

    Sighing, Greg looks into the mirror at his exposed abdomen.

    _Lying in a hospital bed connected to wires and tubes, he awakens to see her at his bedside._

_“I can’t do this anymore, Greg.”_

_And, as she walks away, he wishes for the ventilator to stop only so that the feeling in his chest could be real..._

Sometimes he wonders what would have been different had the bullet gone through an inch or two to the right. Would his marriage have survived? Would she have stayed to aid him in recovery? Maybe he would have had more time to raise his kids. Maybe he could have devoted more time to being a husband and less to… No matter now. The shot had gone clean through; the shooter, an amateur sniper, hadn’t had the gall to kill the Inspector. Surviving had been a miracle; the continuation of his position at the Yard, even more so. His marriage had been failing long before the injury.

    _“Your wife is sleeping with another… no, two other men. Don’t worry, she-”_

_Pulling his bruising fist back, the Detective Inspector looks at the bloody-nosed addict kneeling before him on the outer perimeter of the crime scene. He breathes heavily through his nose as he attempts to pull his composure back in place. The newly promoted Sergeant looks at him with a mixture of shock, pity, and sick delight._

_Leaving behind the strung-out boy, he tells Donovan, “Remove this freak from my crime scene.”_

_Smiling ruefully, she nods once._

He often wonders what Sherlock had been going to say. Not even a week after nearly breaking the younger man’s nose did Lestrade ask his wife of her fidelity… He never did apologize; then, again, Sherlock had never brought it up again.


	2. In Ignorance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sally's scar.

The weather was absolutely beautiful, one of those rare days when the sun shines unbothered by clouds. Children ran and rolled, playing with each other, feeding the birds, throwing rocks into the pond. Parents and guardians laughed an chatted as they trailed behind their charges. Others- young people, singles, couples, runners, elderly- went about their business on this gorgeous spring day.  Away from the crowds a woman with coffee-colored hair and skin like chocolate sits lonely on a bench underneath a blooming Japanese cherry blossom.

Black eyes stared into the distance. Her gaze lost to the present as she relived a not-so-distant past. In the distance, one child pushes another to result in cries which draw the guardians’ attentions to the children. The woman returns to the present and watches as the situation unfolds, but her gaze quickly returns forward, lost to the present. One hand rubs the palm of the other as she stares into the distance.

_ The two eight-year-old girls promised each other to always be friends. Nothing could ever separate them. _

_ “Sally!” The shrill cry comes from the park playground behind her. “Sally! Hey!” _

_ Slowing her pace, a young Sally Donovan turns with a  broad bright smile to greet the ginger-haired girl running towards her. _

_ “Sally?” the redheaded child whispered while sitting with her friend underneath the linen tent. _

_ “Laurette,” she responded, giggling as she played with the flashlight. The other little girl smiled as she attempted to make eye contact with her only friend. _

_ Sally could sense that her friend was nervous, unable to even attain peripheral contact. “All right?” _

_ The ginger nodded slightly, taking her torch and clicking the light on and off. Her fidgeting fingers did little to help her following stutter, “Can w-we be f-fr-friends… forev-ver?” _

_ Sally’s confusion about Laurette’s pleading hesitancy became outweighed by a slight anger, “Of course.” She paused. “Nothing can tear us apart.” _

The memory was a bittersweet one that brought a small smile to Detective Donovan’s face. She remembers Laurette and all her innocent zeal for life… a zeal that was lost.

Rubbing her fingers over the palm of her left hand, she feels the raised skin of the old wound.

_ ONE YEAR LATER _

_ “Hello, Laurette,” Sally tries to be nice; however, her voice is cold and annoyed. _

_ “Hi, Sally,” young Laurette grins widely, her freckled cheeks scrunching her green eyes. “Would y-you like to to play?” _

_ Sally looks at the girl practically bouncing in front of her. With a heavy sigh, she agrees. The two girls make their way to an old swingset occupied by only one other child, a physically smaller boy with black curls and pale skin. Laurette waves to him, but Sally ignores him in favor of climbing into one of the seats furthest away from the other occupant. _

_ Together, the girls swing. Laurette talks about everything: home, church, colors, grass, clouds, people, rocks, swinging, and so on. Her voice becomes a droning annoyance to Sally’s ears. After fifteen minutes or so, the young brunette has had enough. She stops her swing and is about to leave when four older kids come over. _

_ “Well, look at this,” the oldest boy says. “Three freaks hanging for all to see.” _

_ Sally had not noticed the other kid, a young boy with shabby black curls and pale skin, slightly older than her. Behind Sally, Laurette giggles. She continues swinging as though these older kids were nothing but actors for her to watch. The oldest boy looks to the two other boys next to him and whispers something that makes them all laugh. One of the kids points at the shabby haired kid a few swings down and then whispers something else. There are a few girls standing not too far behind the trio. _

_ Aggravated, Sally cuts her eyes across the group, then, “You all think you’re so special. Go away.” _

_ One of the girls- blonde with blue eyes- cackles loudly while the boy in front of her smiles mischievously. _

_ “Not special like she is,” he says while pointing a grubby finger at Laurette, who continues to swing despite the intrusion. “Not  _ only  _ is she ginger, but  _ mental _!” _

_ Anger flares in Donovan’s eyes and she lashes out. Hollering loudly, the group of kids scuffle. Laurette is pulled out of her swing and both the younger girls are beaten. The voices of wrathful parents can be heard after the older kids run away. They don’t notice the help they get from the curly-headed boy. _

_ With her nose bleeding, Sally looks at the other girl and sighs. Without further thought, Sally whispers to Laurette, “Why do I even try to help you?” Taking her bleeding hand, she stands and looks at the redhead laying on the ground.  _

_ “We aren’t even friends.” _

Thinking back on the event, Sally cannot help but feel shame. She raises her eyes to look through the crowds once more. A few hundred meters away, she watches a little redheaded girl and a coffee haired girl play in the grass. Her memories force tears to her eyes.

_ Green eyes raise to charcoal, tears filling them to the brim. The guardians worriedly check the girls over, assuming the tears and anger are from the attack. _

_ At a short distance, the pale boy heavily sighs, head down, he walks away. _

Sally can remember the day clearly, as though it was only yesterday.

_ Her mother opened the door to her room; a somber expression had settled into her body language. _

_ Four years after the attack, Laurette, who was diagnosed with a minor case of schizophrenia, dies from exsanguination. She commits suicide on her thirteenth birthday. _

Tears roll down Donovan’s cheeks as she sits on the park bench. The sun is beginning to set and most of the day’s guests have departed for home. She sees the red headed child being swung between her parents; a regretful smile aches her face.

“She would have been twenty-two today, correct?” A baritone voice beside her makes her startle.

“Jesus! Who the fuck are you?!”

A young man with dark curly hair, pale skin, and eyes unlike any she has ever seen before, stares at her and then looks away. She notices he is thin with a sickly pallor.

“You were young. Very young. Neither of you could have prevented it,” he pauses to allow Sally a moment to relate. His eyes glance to her hand and then, he sees it, the moment her eyes go wide and she realizes what he is talking about. “When she died, she wrote a note.” Reaching into the pocket of a ratty hoodie, Donovan prevents herself from responding in self-defense. “There were a few lines which investigators couldn’t understand.”

He holds the folded paper out towards her.

“This note is for you.”

She looks at the folded paper, puzzled. 

Cautiously, the young man take her scarred hand, says, “She forgives you.”

Enraged, Sally rips her hand from his light grasp as though she has been burned. The hand with the note crumples the paper, subconsciously slipping the sheet into her pocket. Filled with anger and cursing all the same, she leaves the stranger alone at the park’s bench.

Later that evening, with a gun on the table and a bottle of cheap vodka beside it, she feels a crumpling of paper in her pocket as she fidgets on the sofa. Opening the note, she read… and, painful though it was, her heart broke… then mended.

Two years later, she doesn’t recognize the young junkie who stumbles onto her crime scene.

One year later, Sally Donovan continues to despise the man she knows as “the freak” and not as the man who saved her life. _   
_


End file.
